


so open up your heart and let the sunshine in

by honeyichor (bloodsparks)



Category: The Autopsy of Jane Doe (2016)
Genre: 17th Century, Backstory, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Salem Witch Trials
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-03 21:43:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12756750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsparks/pseuds/honeyichor
Summary: They found her body in a basement, but that isn't where her story begins.An innocent woman is accused of witchcraft and forced into a ritual that creates the very thing they try to purge the town of Salem of.





	so open up your heart and let the sunshine in

**Author's Note:**

> this movie sends shivers down my spine every time. there's so much raw material that i see in it; so much to dig up and breathe life into, no metaphorical pun intended. 
> 
> of course, the language used in this piece will not be accurate to that used in 17th century massachusetts, but i tried keeping the facts about the actual witch trials to the best i could.

They found _her_  body in the basement of the Douglas' place, but that isn't where _her_ story begins. It starts a long time back, when the nights were long and fire was hard to come by. When knowledge was a currency and hazard all in one.

Reading was unheard of - only the Holy Men in their chapels knew of the strange symbols that littered their Bibles. _The Coding of Angels_ , they called it. Made not for unclean men, and certainly not for women, but for those who submit their lives to the church. The old men sang hymns from their books, every morning at dawn and in the twilight breeze. Their songs carried on the wind, reaching the furthest houses along the borders of the village, where  _she_ lived peacefully with _her_ disabled sister, caring for her day in and day out.

 _She'd_ always been intelligent, and maybe that was _her_ downfall. Instead of continuing the age-old tradition of passing knowledge down from mother to daughter, _she_ kept journals. Of course, that isn't what they were called at the time. They were made of small waste pieces of ruined parchment outside the chapel. On them _she_  drew sketches of ingredients for _her_ recipes, cures to minor ailments and recordings of dates and times. Simple things.

When the hysteria started, _she_ hadn't thought much of it. Their village was a large one, and rumours often plagued the townspeople.

Though things were about to escalate in a way nobody could expect, _she_ was just as oblivious to the change in the wind as were the rest of the women living on the outskirts of the village.

It began innocently enough, the way all problems do. Two children, strange behaviour, and accusations that reminded everyone of the dark incident that took place four years before. A woman, not from there, accused and executed for the crime of witchcraft. The  _Goody Glover_ , the women at the washing well had  called her. The wretched weed of Boston. The  _Goody Glover_ had been the problem then, but she was gone. So what could possibly be causing the two little girls to be acting the way they were? 

As they did when anything out of the ordinary happened, the women in the town began to talk.  _She_ disagreed with it; _she_ hated the way they dissected the poor girls' actions and made them into a subject of blame. Fear was at the root of it all, _she_ knew, but who was  _she_ to argue?

To the richer of the people, the ones that ran the town, _she_ was nothing but a simpleton. A fool with no voice in her throat or faith in her heart. So _she_ listened, and said nothing, and went about _her_ everyday business.  _She_ tended to their garden, mended the neighbours' clothing, prepared their dinner and supper.  _She_ was a good woman, to the best of  _her_ abilities. But despite the invitations to tea at the town hall, and the questions of the other townswomen,  _she_ was quiet, introverted, and solitary. That was  _her_ second mistake. 

The first of the accusations meant nothing. A familial dispute, that's all anyone said it was. Interfamily matters that spread because someone within was too angry to keep them secret. The women of the town and village brushed it off, and the men didn't hear of it. 

Nobody saw it coming. Like a wildfire in a wooden house, the convicted shifted and stretched their stories in desperate attempts to escape the ending that fate seemed to have chosen for them. By the end of the first week, at least five more have been charged with witchcraft. 

While it had all started going down,  _she_ had chosen to stay out of the gossip circles, away from hushed whispers of who everyone thought would be next.  _She_ kept close to home, humming under her breath the hymns she heard on Sunday mornings, when the bells of the chapel rang and the choir harmonised.  _Her_ daily work and chores never ceased, and the routine of _her_ days revolved around keeping _her_ sister healthy, as well as maintaining their home and keeping them with just enough money to get by.

If truth be told,  _she_ was proud that  _she_ knew nothing of the ridiculous trials. That was, until _her_ sister became involved. 

 _She_ was at work in the little garden patch by the river, watering the plants and harvesting the cabbages and tubers that fed them, when it happened. The neighbours were at work and in the village centre, which meant a peaceful afternoon.  _She_ was almost finished when one of the village elders, a Reverend, came marching toward  _her_ , Bible in hand and a small crowd behind him. 

Standing straight and wiping the sweat from her forehead,  _she_ frowned in confusion. "What's this about, then?"  _She_ expected a reasonable answer, but the grave expression on the man's face led her to fear the worst. "Is it my sister?" 

But instead of an answer, he opened his Bible and began to read in a voice that made the hair on the back of  _her_  neck stand. "A man or woman who is a medium or a fortune-teller must be put to death. Your blood is on your hands."

The crowd behind him recited in time, "Leviticus twenty, twenty-seven."

Before  _she_ could protest, or even say a word in her defence, they reached forward and grabbed  _her_ by  _her_ arms. _She_ screamed, pulling away from them and trying to run before the crowd outnumbered and pacified  _her_. Having chosen to remain away from the other accusations,  _she_ had no way of knowing that her violent reaction would only serve to worsen her case when the time came for her trial to start. 

The first thing  _she_ did when brought to the courthouse was look through the crowd for  _her_ sister. _Her_ eyes landed upon her tiny, sunken figure immediately; _her_ sister was at the defendant's stand just to the right of the jury. As her illness bound her to a bed or chair, she'd have had no way of being there unless she'd been taken from their home. The thought brought tears to  _her_ eyes. How cruel could they be, to take a young woman incapable of fighting for herself, and to thrust upon her a grave crime she could not have committed? 

There was no judge on the Bench, but a full jury sat looking incredibly smug for a panel made up of a town plagued by what they believed was the Devil himself.  _She_ hated it, hated every single one of them, and wanted to spit on their smiles as _she_ was dragged to not the defendant's stand, but the witness'. 

"What is this?"  _She_ hissed. _She_ ached to leap over to her sister, to hold her in _her_ arms and check for bruises, for any harm, for anything at all that would justify the incredible rage _she_ felt that they had dared to lay a finger on her.  "What are we here for?"

Nobody spoke, and the room was almost too quiet. The same Reverend who'd brought  _her_ there entered the room, and the villagers stood to acknowledge him.  _She_ waited until he took his place on the Bench,  _her_ eyes never leaving his face the whole time. Fifty-seven seconds passed before the Reverend spoke. 

"You stand accused of witchcraft. Of spreading the Devil's work." His voice was chillingly cold, void of emotion. 

"What is my sister doing here? Why is she over there?"  _She_ hated the way  _her_ voice shook. 

The Reverend's eyes narrowed. "I would advise you to speak for yourself, and to answer my questions if you want this over quickly." 

"Why is she over there?"  _She_ repeated immediately, her voice a frantic shout. There was fury in  _her_ eyes. Determination. If only  _she_ knew how much worse she was making it for herself in  _her_ desperate attempts to salvage  _her_ sister's situation. 

Something in the Reverend's expression changed. "She is here because of concerns from your neighbours. They say they hear screaming in the night, see your cabin lit up in unholy hours of the night. While these conditions may simply be peculiarities, they are incriminating when paired with other circumstances. You and your sister live isolated, alone together with no social practices. The Lord sees all, and only He knows what unholy acts you commit in the dark. Your odd behaviours cannot be overlooked." 

 _Her_ cheeks flushed in anger. "Are you accusing me of carnal relations with my sister? My own blood?" 

"I am stating the concerns levelled against you." 

"You have no proof of any of these allegations,"  _she_ spat, looking at her sister who was crying silently, her eyes downcast and focused on the floor. 

Now the Reverend's face looked smug. He gestured to the jury, and a woman came forward with a sack. She emptied the contents onto the Reverend's table, and  _her_ heart sank as she saw what tumbled out. The 'notes' she'd made; her scratchings on scraps of parchment. Beside them was a hunk of cheese she'd forgotten all about, no doubt succumbing to rot having been left in the back of their cupboard.  _She_ had no idea what that had to do with anything, but her confusion was cleared as the woman from the jury began to speak. 

"These etchings are proof of consultation with the Devil and his Satanic consorts. Neither you nor your family have any connection to the Priests nor the Chapel of our Lord. You don't attend Sabbath prayers, the whole village can testify to that. The cheese in your home is spoiled. Both you and your sister are of marriageable age, and yet you choose to spend your nights together, no doubt in the same bed. Your crops grow twice as quickly as the others. All this, and more, points to you and your sister being guilty of witchcraft and fraternising with Devils." 

 _She_ paled as the woman spoke. There was an explanation for everything, but  _she_ doubted they would accept anything  _she_ had to say. There was only one thing left to do, and that was to save  _her_ sister. Whatever they would do to  _her_ ,  _she_ could survive, but  _she_ had to make sure  _her_ sister was going to be released and taken care of. With this in mind,  _she_ turned her indignant expression to a desperate one. 

"Please,"  _she_ whispered. "Let her go. Please, don't hurt her." 

"Are you confessing to your crimes against this community and against the Lord most High?" 

"No, but-" 

"Are you confessing to your crimes against the Lord most High?"

"Please, my sister-"

"Are you confessing to your crimes?" 

With a shaky breath,  _she_ realised it was the only way to save  _her_ sister. "Yes." 

Everything happened in a blur after that. First, the jury roared in a cacophony of cheers and outraged cries. The women looked far too pleased to be witnessing a possible death sentence being handed out, but  _she_ supposed bitterly that they craved any form of entertainment, no matter how gruesome. Second, the Reverend ordered for  _her_ to be taken to the Chapel, where  _she_ would be dealt with. As  _she_ was being dragged away, through the manic crowd,  _she_ tried desperately to look for her sister among them. When  _she_ saw her still sitting on the defendant's stand,  _her_ eyes widened and she looked to the Reverend pleadingly. 

"Reverend!"  _She_ screamed, nails digging into the arms of those ushering her away, "Reverend, please! My sister, Reverend, take care of her, oh, Reverend, please!" 

But as _she_ was dragged out of the courthouse and to the chapel across the village square, the last glimpse of the Reverend that _she_ saw revealed nothing but a cruel glint in his eyes, and the hint of a hard smile on his thin lips. 

 _Her_ cries stopped abruptly, unnerving some of those around her.  _She_ focused her attention on praying; on hoping that they would care for  _her_ sister even though most of the odds seemed to be against it. Though also dreading the uncertain and bleak future that awaited  _her_ ,  _her_ thoughts still centred around the care and wellbeing of the only one in  _her_ life that _she_ truly cared for with all _her_ heart -  _her_ sister. 

It didn't take long for them to reach the Chapel, but once they did,  _she_ was surprised to find that only two women and a man from the large mob followed her in. The rest waited outside, chanting words that rang foggy to her ears. 

 _She_ shivered. It had been a long time since  _she'd_ last been inside the Chapel, and it felt colder than  _she_ remembered. It was airy, the kind of empty space that would echo. Carved figures of the Lord on His Cross lined the sides of the large room, and at the front of the altar was a coloured glass panel depicting what looked like a woman holding a child in her arms.  _She_ didn't have enough time to properly inspect it, as  _she_ was quickly whisked away to a staircase at the back of the Chapel.

Instead of going up the golden spiral staircase, they turned _her_ toward a menacing looking set of a few stone steps that led down into a corridor that no doubt led to the belly of the building. Immediately, fear bloomed in  _her_ stomach.  _She_ held back, trying not to go down the steps and hoping it was a mistake and they would tell _her_ to go upstairs. The women holding _her_ arms tightened their grip, already beginning the descent into the basement. 

"No, n-no, please." For the first time since  _she_ was brought to the courthouse,  _her_ composure slipped.  _She_ couldn't help it - she didn't want to go down the steps,  _she_ really, really didn't. Whatever waited for her down there would be worse than anything  _she'd_ ever faced, _she_ was sure of it. 

"Introibo ad altare dei!" The sole man's booming voice echoed from behind  _her._  

The shock of his voice combined with the increasing pain in  _her_ arms as  _she_ was pulled harshly down the stairs was too much, and with a sharp cry,  _she_ stopped resisting and allowed  _herself_ to be tugged forward. The sudden weight of  _her_ body surprised the women holding  _her_ , and the inertia of  _her_ body going limp caused  _her_ to fall gracelessly down the stone steps. There was a sharp pain in  _her_ left temple.

It was the last thing  _she_ remembered before  _she_ closed  _her_ eyes and succumbed to what would be the last chapter of  _her_ story. 

**Author's Note:**

> so, if you couldn't tell, the italicised female pronouns refer to the jane doe we see in the movie :-)
> 
> VOCAB LIST
> 
> i. introibo ad altare dei (enter the altar of god)


End file.
